Starlight on Western Seas
by Losseniaiel
Summary: Reflections on the sorrow of the passing of the Elves and Middle-earth without them. Elrond remembers his old home, and realises that the past never truly lets go.
1. Rivendell

**Starlight on ****Western****Seas**

**Disclaimers:** If I owned them, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction in the early hours of Christmas Eve. They all belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate. 

**Rating:** PG. 

**Summary:** A solitary figure mourns for the sorrow of the passing of the Elves, and contemplates his world without them in the wake of a personal tragedy. Reflections on Rivendell, Elrond, Aragorn and Arwen. Angsty and sappy – my favourite *does a happy dance*

**A/N: **The title is an abbreviation of a line from the song of Elbereth from the chapter 'Three is Company' of FoTR ('Thy starlight on the Western Seas'). The quotation from the Lay of Luthien is taken directly from Aragorn's singing in 'A Knife in the Dark'.

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Vines grew here now, straggling and writhing across the fine stone floor, clambering up the once ornate walls. Shelves, bereft of the books which they had harboured for so long, creaked and sagged.

In the middle of the room a man simply stood, contemplating the desolation around him with fierce grey eyes. The gentle breeze tangled his long dark hair around his sorrowful face.

All was lost; all faded and failed as the Elves left the shores of Middle-earth. What was once magnificent was now forlorn, abandoned. The sanctuary of Rivendell was empty, its people scattered in all directions across the Hither Lands. Without Master Elrond's wise rule, those who did not go into the West found no reason to stay. Without its founder, the palace grew gloomy, the air which had given it the title of the Last Homely House west of the Mountains waning. And so Imladris fell into decay, as if the merciless hand of nature was trying to reclaim her own, to take revenge for all the changeless years of the Third Age.

The man, whose unlined face spoke of youth, although his clear eyes glittered with the weight of the years, slowly paced from the study, trailing one hand along the wall. His callused fingertips picked out an intertwining pattern of mallorn leaves, and he closed his eyes briefly, pain flickering across his features. Lothlorien … the Golden Wood … so much despair now dwelt in that name for him.

Numbly, he sank down on the edge of a broken step, through which blades of grass sprouted, oblivious to everything except the urge to seek the sun. He gazed into the far distance, ignoring the lost grandeur of his surroundings, thinking lonely thoughts of what was once and could never be again, calling to his mind faces which he had known, and which had now fled from the waking world. And he tried to imagine Elrond Peredhel as he had sat in council long ago, dark hair flowing freely down his back, face grave with the cares of the world, yet vivid and kind. But he found that he could not. The only image which appeared was of an old man, wizened by relentless time, snowy-haired, his face riven with lines of age and strife, eyes weary with seeing, heart weary with beating. He might tell himself that it was not so, but all that appeared before him, after so many tales of unspeakable woes, was this.

He scrubbed his hand across his face, and abruptly rose to his feet. He had come to visit Imladris, and visit Imladris he would, no matter what pain it caused him.

With swift steps, he entered the gardens, which had been the pride and joy of the Evenstar. At this thought, his breath caught in his throat, an icy tingling creeping across the back of his neck. He gazed round at the roses choking the delicate arbours, at the ivy draining the life from the ancient trees. He knew that this was the way that things would continue; he had always known. His childhood had been filled with songs and tales of the passing of the elves to Valinor, leaving the world to mortal Men, yet, sitting here in these gardens which had once been alight with music and laughter, the pain stabbed him anew, augmented by fresh wounds. All that he thought was how much his world was dimmed, diminished by the passing of the Firstborn. No dictate of the Valar could lighten the heart of one who had known the Elven-kin, once they passed to the Undying Lands.

His pace slowed as he came to the shrine, buried in weeds and a mass of filth. With one reverent finger he touched the statue of Elbereth, tracing the lines of the ethereal face which watched over the grave of Gilraen. However, something drew him inexorably onwards until he reached a great space, open to the sky even now: the archery fields.

With the footfalls of a dreamer he trod the hard-packed earth, his head filled with visions of the warriors who had trained here, sinewy arms pulling bowstrings taut, skilled hands fitting arrows with effortless precision. In this place, the armies of Imladris had trained for life and for death, and from here had gone forth to their fate.

There was no deadly hum of weapons here now, no echoing ring of metal upon metal, no soft murmur of intent voices. Only silence reigned among the verdant trees, a soft reverent absence which seemed aware of its own lack, of the hollowness, of the abyss.

Yet, at the edge of his vision, he could almost see a wisp of golden hair, the sleek movement of graceful limbs. He could almost hear the delighted peals of musical voices, the muffled whispers of lovers on a warm night. In this place, the past was so near that he could almost touch it, reaching out with wistful longing for the sensations of his childhood; yet so far away that all the depth and breadth of many lifetimes barred the way between the worlds.

Returning to the house, his keen eyes noted the melancholy stain of rainwater streaking the pale stone. As outside the Bruinen had jumped its banks, released from its long captivity, and swept a new path through the lower valley, so here rivers of grey and dull green flooded the whiteness of the walls.

Not one surface remained untouched. The delicate tiling was piled with drifted leaves, the ceilings mottled, the pillars peppered with spots of moss and mould. Living creatures ran wild, insects nesting in corners, mice scurrying from room to room, yet to the man, who stood among all this with tears in his eyes, it only seemed to be a charnel-house.

Who would remember the glory of the days of old in Imladris? All who had known it at the zenith of its power had passed beyond Middle-earth to Valinor or the void. The sanctuary, with all its joys and its woes, its fierce humanity and the serenity of the elves, would dwindle into shadows and mists, beyond recall slipping into the realm of legends.

"And I am supposed to rejoice in the ascendancy of Men!" he thought bitterly, a humourless smile twisting his fine lips. "It were better never to have known at all what had gone before than to know, and yearn without hope for an Age which has fled."

Without joy, he contemplated how apt the decrepit state of Rivendell was to the Fourth Age. While Elrond had remained in Middle-earth, the valley had been blessed with an enduring beauty only surpassed by Lothlorien. Now, he and his folk had sailed into the distant West, and the land was revealed in its mortality, aging and dying as did those who were now the guardians of Middle-earth. No, he found nothing to gladden his soul in the passing of the Elves.

Aimlessly, he wandered from chamber to chamber, opening and closing doors, peering into dusty closets. What he sought, he knew not, only that he was looking for some sign, some ephemeral symbol of the vitality which had once dwelt here. Eventually, his feet carried him to Elrond's quarters, where he slumped to the floor, idly drawing shapes in the thick dust.

His eyes swept every contour of the room, picturing the way it must once have looked, crowded with books and papers, rich silks adorning the walls.

His weary gaze snagged on something, but he could not immediately perceive what it was. He could not think what would be so incongruous as to capture his attention thus. Then he saw it: the corner of a sheet of paper protruding from one drawer of the massive stone desk.

Springing to his feet, he quickly covered the intervening space. Opening the drawer, he gently freed the crumpled sheet. To his immense disappointment, it was blank. As he began to return it to the drawer, he realised with astonishment that piled within there was a great mass of paper.

Lifting this out, and settling onto the cold stone window seat, he gazed at the clear, firm handwriting which covered the page. At the top, it simply read, _The Lay of Luthien. _Beneath this was inscribed a name, each graceful stroke of the pen speaking of power and certainty: _Elrond Peredhel, son of Earendil_.

Eagerly, he hunched over the sheaf of paper, drinking in the ebb and flow of the haunting narrative, relishing the sight of the handwriting of the Half-Elven, still stubbornly black and unmarred after all these years.

As he read, he sang the melancholy tune under his breath, his voice ragged with emotion.

The tale was as familiar to him as the halls of his home, as the gleaming stars in the night sky. It had been his childhood companion, more faithful than any dog, lulling him to sleep, and awakening him to the bright fairness of the morning, yet there were verses here which even he did not know. It spoke of more grievous despair and of more poignant love than the heart could bear.

_"And long ago they passed away_

_In the forest singing sorrowless_" 

At these words, he trembled, and his hard-won composure broke.  Memories assaulted his brain: of loss, of death, and of the passing of the fairest of things.  As he wept for himself, for the joining of the bloodlines of Elves and Men, and for the sundered fates of those two kindreds, tears spilled freely from his silver-grey eyes, soaking his sleeves and his trembling hands.

He mourned for the uncertainty of Men, the dark void which opened before his people, swallowing all their good intentions.  He mourned because without the Elves the story of Middle-earth could only be written in such besmirched fragments.

Most of all, he cried bitter tears for his family.

Finally, he could weep no more, and in that instant of exhaustion, a breath of acceptance came.  Sorrow and loneliness and the desire to pass beyond the Sundering Seas lingered in his veins, yet he would not shirk his burdens.  He was bound to the race of Men, and his regrets and distress would not lead him to dishonour his name.

Absent-mindedly bringing one hand up to touch the blunted point of one of his own ears, King Eldarion of Arnor and Gondor rose, tucking the papers beneath his warm cloak.

Solemnly, he faced the West and the setting sun.

"Namarie, daeradar," he murmured.

Swiftly, he turned, and strode away into the gathering twilight with a resolute expression upon his face.

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namarie – farewell. 

daeradar – grandfather. 

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	2. Aman

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Starlight on Western Seas

Chapter 2.

Disclaimers: See previous chapter.

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Summary: Elrond reflects on the passing of the Elves from Middle-earth, and his own attachment to it. Angsty with a little sap thrown in for good measure. A little bit of Elrond/Celebrian. A fairly unusual take on Elrond's attitude towards Middle-earth, but I don't think that it contradicts canon.

Far, far to the west, beyond the reach of mortal men, beyond the pathless seas, Lord Elrond of Imladris stood, gazing at the tumbling waves. His grey eyes shone with an unnatural brightness in the gloom. Despite his misery, he smiled a welcome at the figure who glided to his side, the last rays of the setting sun tingeing her pale locks with a dull scarlet.

"They will be here tomorrow," he whispered. "She is dead, and they have left Middle-earth. They will arrive with the dawn."

Celebrian sighed, burying her face in the cloth of his robe.

"Aye, I know," she answered softly. "My mother told me. But how do you know?"

"There remains for me some connection to the lands where once I dwelt," he said, fiddling with the ring on his right hand. "I felt it. I know not how, but I felt the land itself change at the passing of the Evenstar. I did not speak, for I did not wish to worry you before I was certain. Yet now I perceive our sons drawing near across the waters."

His wife drew him close and wrapped him in a fierce embrace. Once he was freed from it, he was silent for some time, staring once more beyond the horizon.

"I still miss it," he exclaimed suddenly, failing to meet Celebrian's eyes. "I miss the way the dawn sounds in Imladris, the raucous noise of Men. I yearn for the spring sunshine on the Bruinen and the last light of autumn on the towers of Minas Tirith."

He laughed, melancholy infecting the usual warmth.

"I tell myself that it is not so, that I cannot want to return to imperfection and the lands of shadow when I am surrounded by such beauty, and I do indeed love the peace of Aman, but my heart betrays me. I remember the courts of Lindon, and the laughter of the Halflings, and the fleeting seasons, and I am not content."

Celebrian traced the strong line of his jaw with one loving finger.

"Yet you desired to leave?" she asked.

Elrond's grip on her other hand tightened affectionately.

"I wished to return to your side, meleth nin," he replied affectionately, "and I longed for tranquillity, and freedom from strife, but I never truly grew weary of Middle-earth. I never wished to leave _there_, I only wished to arrive _here_, to see your dearest face once more."

Celebrian giggled.

"Ah yes, my Elrond," she murmured, "how well I know your tendency to strive for the impossible."

"Only because my lady wife demanded it," he teased, the darkness briefly leaving his grave features, but only too soon solemnity returned to his grey eyes.

"Some days I awaken, and in that space between dreams and reality, I think that I have been gone too long, and that I must return to my responsibilities."

"I know. You make a most uncomfortable pillow on those mornings."

Elrond tried to look serious, but a glimmer of amusement appeared on his face. He continued quickly, as if afraid that she might leave before he had finished.

"Here I know joy such as I had never imagined could exist. I am safe, but I feel almost as if … as if I cannot be true to it, as if I do not belong here, and my soul knows it. It is … it is not…"

"Your home," she finished for him, intense compassion shining in her eyes. Elrond glanced quickly up at her, surprised by her intuition.

"No, it is not," he said thoughtfully. "Imladris will always be my home, even if I never see it again. I cannot explain it. I lost so much there, so many hopes were shattered, and those I love suffered greatly, especially you, dear Celebrian, yet I cannot allow it to fade into the dusk of Middle-earth. I beg your forgiveness for this."

He sank to one knee before her, his head bent over her clasped hands.

Soundlessly she sat down beside him, refusing to accept his obeisance, and lifted his head with one finger under his dimpled chin.

"Elrond Earendilion, there is nothing to forgive. I have always known. Imladris will always be here." She touched one hand to his shaking chest. "You will stay here many ages, but you will never call it yours, and if the rallying-cry comes, you will forsake the light, which you rejoice in without belonging, for the darkness in which you know yourself."

"I … I would not leave you, my moonlit Celebrian. I could not bear to leave you again. It was sorrow indeed to watch you sail across the sea without me," he sighed. "No matter how much I might choose to forsake peace I have sworn never to leave you again. My duty, at least, to Middle-earth, is discharged. For the sake of my soul, and my heart, and because I could not stand to do aught else, I shall keep my promise. I shall remain in Aman."

Celebrian moulded here body around his, and breathed deeply of the heady scent of his dark hair.

"I did not ask you to return without me. If you go, I shall accompany you. I may not have your love for the Hither Lands, but I do not intend to be separated from you, and I no longer fear the darkness of that land. Aman has healed me of its terrors," she countered in a voice laden with emotion. "If a day comes when your land calls you back, I shall go with you."

"I could not ask that of you," Elrond said in a cracked voice. "It would be selfish."

"You need not ask it," she whispered. "I shall come, regardless of your wishes. But, for now, let us leave that day to the future. The son of Arwen and Aragorn will govern Gondor and Arnor with both faith and justice. Let us, instead, watch the sea and the lights of Elbereth."

And so they sat on the shifting sands, enveloped by the soothing winds of the night and lulled by the balm of the heavens. They rested in one another's arms, flowing hair intermingling, black and silver, until the first rays of dawn lightened the sky, and with them, in the east, white sails fluttered against the blue sea.

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